Help Wanted

A pen tapped against the table.

Waves of frustration and ripples of desperation sloshed in the half-finished bowl of corn flakes.

A newspaper lay unfurled upon the table, like a cartographer’s latest project.

Each red circle noted a job offer, a potential cache of cash.

Each red slash noted a failed phone call, a reminder of meager skills and strict standards.

Help Wanted: Digital Assistant Applicant must have experience in complete adobe workset.

Help Wanted: Secretary All inquiries must prove capable of a words per minutes of 50+.

Help Wanted: Office Clerk Requires advanced application of Word, Excel, and Access.

The classifieds were a treasure map, but each chest was sealed with a larger lock than the last.

It wasn’t until the white paper was dyed with crimson rejections that I noticed it.

HELP WANTED: NO QUALIFICATIONS OR EXPERIENCE NEEDED

The voice that answered the call was a gravel pit, answering any questions in short, dusty grunts.

Yeah, you start tomorrow. Grand a week. Just keep track of my financials. Goodbye.

It was more than expected, and I didn’t care what I had to do for the money.

Since the divorce, I was buried alive with ever-increasing debts: desperate for an offered shovel.

I was greeted by the voice on the phone. He wore a suit, but looked uncomfortable wearing it.

As I was led to a cramped makeshift office in a trailer, I asked what his company did.

He went into a surprised coughing fit, and recovered with a slight chuckle.

He uttered “organic disposal” hastily, and then left with a door-slam.

Looking through the file cabinets of transactions, I was baffled by the riddle within the receipts.

Some of the purchases made sense: trash bags, rags, and zip-ties-- things I could understand.

But, other items didn’t fit: cooking pans, knives, and chemicals like Sodium Hydroxide.

The checks however, seemed to prove that he was doing something, and people paid well for it.

Each one was just a name, and every amount was the same:

John Smith - $10,000, Franklin Anderson - $10,000, Rose Johnson - $10,000, and so on.

A steady paycheck curbed my curiosity, until one day I saw a check with a familiar name.

Scarlett Richardson - $10,000 - for future services rendered. The name was my ex-wife’s.

After the things I did to her, the way she screamed, I never thought I’d have to see that name again.

Before I could even begin to consider what my ex-wife spent ten grand to dispose of, I felt it.

A searing sensation filled my body, and I fell to the floor. My body ignored my brain’s desperate pleas.

The man dropped the syringe, sighed, and said: “Sorry man, but-- I’m just doing my job, you know?”

He sat on my chest, and slid a deep pan under my head. He held a shimmering razor over my neck.

His motion was so casual, it felt like he was just getting ready to change my car’s oil-- Not kill me.

He slid the blade across my neck, and I heard a steady drip against the metal. I was a liquid hourglass.

I saw him stand, heard him pour an unknown liquid into an unseen tub, and felt him grab me by the legs.

Before my veins ran empty, I heard him mutter: “Great, now I’ll have to place another ad.”